


Nightmares and Comfort

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a request: Merry Christmas (if you're celebrating?)!A fic where R always has dreams of Enjolras leaving or something, and wakes up panicked and terrified and he won't tell Enjolras what his dreams are about, until he somehow finds out and tries to comfort R?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares and Comfort

Grantaire looked an ugly mess, horrible, awful. Grantaire looked, according to his own self, that very way  _every day_ , but today particularly, he looked disgusting. There were heavy bags under his eyes, his lips were twice as chapped as usual, and he was struggling to even stay awake at the table.

"It’s  _awful_.” He confessed to Bossuet, rubbing at his forehead, his other hand loosely clasping a glass of wine. He drank a good deal less these days, but he needed it at the moment - if he drank enough, then perhaps he wouldn’t dream. “I wake up and he’s  _gone_ , forever-” Grantaire choked a little on the words, a heavy lump drawn in his throat, and Joly leaned forwards, patting the side of Grantaire’s hand. 

"It’s alright. We all have nightmares." Bossuet said quietly, ever reasonable, ever calm. His smile was gentle and kind, and he regarded Grantaire with his soft, deep eyes. Grantaire felt himself relax, if only very slightly, in his chair. "It’ll pass."

”It  _isn’t_  passing. Two  _months_ , and it’s just not going away, it’s not passing. Maybe he is going to leave. Maybe it’s some forgotten God telling me in a fashion of subtlety, maybe he’s going to-“

"Now, don’t be ridiculous." Joly interrupted Grantaire’s spiral, squeezing his hand. "He’s not going to leave you. Enjolras  _loves_  you, Grantaire-“

"God knows why." Grantaire drained the glass, and Joly sighed. 

"The nightmares  _will_  pass, it’s just a matter of-“

"Is that what it is?" The blond spoke quietly from behind Grantaire’s shoulder, and Bossuet and Joly looked up at Enjolras with parted lips. "You’re having nightmares,  _cheri_?” Grantaire flushed at the endearment, cheeks going ruddy with scarlet red, but neither Joly nor Bossuet made a point of teasing him about it. 

“ _Enjolras_ -“

"You could have told me." The blond murmured in a small voice, regarding Grantaire with his pretty face and his beautiful eyes, his lovely hair that had grown longer now, that was tied behind his head. And, where his collar was splayed open - and it was only open, sans cravat, among the amis, the scar at his collar bone where one bullet had pierced the skin.

Before Grantaire had dragged Enjolras away from the barricade with everyone else, that is. 

"I didn’t want you worried, Benoît." Joly and Bossuet stood, moving to interrupt Bahorel’s card game with Prouvaire (Bahorel was, of course, losing terribly). And, as if Grantaire’s cheeks couldn’t get any redder, Enjolras settled himself in Grantaire’s lap to catch the side of his face and catch his eyes.

“ _Aimé_.” Enjolras murmured, tone gentle, and hand yet more so where it stroked over Grantaire’s cheek. He was so tender with Grantaire when they were sat like this, petting him as gently as one would a young kitten. It was embarrassing, certainly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Enjolras was regarding him as sweetly as he was at this very moment. “You comforted me when I had terrors in the dead of night.”

And truly, Enjolras’ dreams had been terrible. After the revolution had failed miserably, and they’d hidden in an apartment of Combeferre’s (Grantaire was not  _surprised_ that Combeferre had had a plan for this, not truly, but it hadn’t exactly been gratifying all the same), Enjolras had dreamt. He’d woken with cold sweats in the night, shaking and sobbing - Grantaire hated nothing more than to see Enjolras cry - and clinging tightly to Grantaire, who’d begun to share his bed. 

"Those were real nightmares, understandable ones." Grantaire protested quietly. Enjolras’ nightmares had been of the revolution, of his friends dying, of blood and terror and gunfire and the scent of gunpowder, so strong it continued to cling to all their clothes even a month after the damn thing was over. "This is not suffering, Enjolras, it is merely my irrational-" 

Enjolras silenced Grantaire with a press of his lips (Grantaire adored those lips, sweet and pink and as plump in flesh as a ripe peach, and how he’d painted them, time after time after time, with as much dedication as a worshipper at prayer) to Grantaire’s mouth. “Oh.” Grantaire said, succinct. 

"You could have told me." Enjolras murmured. "You should have, Aimé."

"Benoît-"

"How did you comfort me after the barricades?"

"Benoît." Grantaire said again, in a completely different tone, as if it could convey all he meant. And, after so long together, it could do so thoroughly. 

"I can help you." Enjolras murmured, thumbing over Grantaire’s cheek again. "I will help you. Tell me what happens in the dream, Grantaire. Please." The brunet let out a soft sigh, staring up at Enjolras with a quivering lip.

And then, he began to talk, as surely as he would have told confession if he followed a faith as the others did. He spoke in a hushed tone, and Enjolras listened to him, one hand pleasant and warm on the back of Grantaire’s neck: to ground him. 

Later, Combeferre moved forwards, and he very gently tapped Enjolras’ shoulder. “Enjolras? Enjolras, come, get up.” The blond’s forehead had been pressed to Grantaire’s neck, and despite himself, he had fallen asleep. Grantaire was asleep too, for the time being, head rested on the top of Enjolras’. “Grantaire?”

The brunet shocked awake, blinking sleepily up at the taller, sandy-haired man. “Combeferre?”

"Take him to bed." The doctor said quietly, and Grantaire looked drowsily to Enjolras, blinking a few more times.

"Oh. Yes." He shifted, leaning down and putting an arm under Enjolras’ knee before shifting. He lifted Enjolras, careful in keeping the blond’s head against his neck instead of letting it fall back, and carried him from the table. 

Combeferre settled in his place, reaching for Grantaire’s unfinished bottle and pouring himself a glass. Courfeyrac came forwards and leaned to murmur in his ear, and Combeferre gave a wry smile as he listened to the other man’s invitation. “Alright.” He allowed, and he let Courfeyrac pull him from his chair to lead him up to bed as well. 


End file.
